


Itches

by incendiary1 (trycatpennies)



Series: Werecat Stiles [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Rimming, Werecats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trycatpennies/pseuds/incendiary1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Is The Word Tailhole Hot.</p><p>It's been a month, and the full moon is rolling around again. Stiles is feeling distinctly uncomfortable and uh. Aroused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Itches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Sequel to [ A Lame Pun About Cats ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/554675). (not, as I had incorrectly stated, Is the World Tailhole Hot, thanks [Starlighted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/starlighted/pseuds/starlighted). 
> 
> Written for [ delighter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/delighter), beta'd by [ man_sushi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mansushi/pseuds/mansushi).

Stiles manages the night before the full moon with a whole shitload of leftover Adderal from before he was turned and a very, very long run. 

He tips into bed exhausted but thrumming, his skin itching. He passes out tangled up in his sheets, skin clammy and hot, and his dreams are fever-heady; running in the woods, prowling, stretching out of his skin. 

He’s up too early the next day, and when he pulls up to Scott’s house with coffee and breakfast, he has to wave off Scott’s raised eyebrow.

“I was up early,” he starts to explain but Scott holds up his hand.

“Nah, man. I get it. Full moon,” Scott says, and he buckles his seatbelt, taking his cup of coffee. When Stiles raises his to his lips, Scott smirks. “I hope you made yours decaf.”

He makes it to third period before he’s practically vibrating out of his seat. Alison snags him as he leaves the room, bolting from his desk. 

“Go home,” she says, firm.

“Can’t. Dad’s at home. He’s not so big with the playing hooky,” Stiles says, chewing on a thumbnail. 

“Go to Derek’s,” Alison says, after a moment. Stiles smells the flare of embarrassment and he rolls his eyes. Alison flushes, and then leans in to kiss his cheek. “Yeah, Scott told me. Next time you guys have a full moon gangbang, invite me, ok?”

Stiles squeezes her hand and flees, hauling his phone out of his pocket. 

He texts Derek at the first red light, then taps his fingers on the steering wheel, his phone in the passenger seat. He doesn’t bother checking for a response, but he does smile when he hears the notification go off. 

Derek’s door is unlocked, as always, and Stiles lets himself in, dropping his hoodie to the ground and tugging his shirt over his head. He’s so _hot_. 

“Make yourself at home. Wait. Don’t. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

Stiles looks up at Derek leaning on the railing of the spiral staircase, looking at Stiles, unimpressed. Not that that’s any different from usual.

Stiles grins up at him, beatifically.

“I’m having some trouble adjusting. My skin is itching, my ears are ringing. I just feel--” He rubs his hands over his arms, then holds his hands out, watching them as he flexes. He doesn’t have the control to extend his claws, not this close to the moon, but he can _feel_ them. Right there, under his skin. “I feel like everything is tight. Like I just have all of this energy and nowhere to put it. Like I--”

“Have an itch you can’t scratch?” 

Derek’s right behind him, so carefully not touching. Stiles can feel him, a prickly awareness, and the hairs on the back of his neck standson end, Derek’s breath warm against his skin. 

“You offering to scratch it?” Stiles’ voice is rough and he turns to face Derek, eyes on Derek’s mouth.

Derek growls, and Stiles ends up pressed against the wall, rough brick scratching against his bare skin. He hisses, bares his teeth, but it feels good, better than standing there itching in his own skin.

“Cat in heat,” Derek says, and Stiles hisses again, eyes flickering yellow. If he had a tail it’d be swishing, irritated. 

“Be nice,” Stiles says and Derek smirks at him. He leans in, and Stiles is expecting a kiss, but Derek rubs his scruff over Stiles’ smooth cheek and Stiles shivers, mewling. 

“Gonna mark you up, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles starts when Derek nips at his ear, then lower, dragging fang-sharp teeth over Stiles’ jaw. 

They haven’t done this since the last full moon, when it’d been _everyone_. For all Derek’s dirty talk about bitches and pleasing the pack, he’d also been into the whole consenting thing and hadn’t pushed it when Stiles hadn’t pursued it.

But Stiles is sort of wishing he had, now. Pursued it. Because maybe if he had he’d be getting fucked six ways to Sunday by the whole pack, instead of writhing pitifully against Derek’s thigh.

Fortunately being pitiful evokes pity, and Derek pushes at Stiles until he drops to his knees, face pressed against the rough denim of Derek’s jeans. 

“Get them open, Stiles, come on.” 

Stiles is frantically sloppy with it, but it’s worth the hissing intake of Derek’s breath when Stiles cups him through his briefs, and then tugs the waistband down with his teeth. He gets his mouth on Derek’s cock and moans, grateful. 

Derek doesn’t let him off easy either. He seems insistent on scratching Stiles’ itch, so to speak. He presses his thumb into the joint of Stiles’ jaw, forces Stiles’ mouth wide and presses his cock in, rubs the head against the roof of Stiles’ mouth, up against his soft palate and back, further into his throat, till Stiles is closing his eyes and swallowing around the thick length of it. 

Derek doesn’t pull out, just back, lets the head of his cock rest on Stiles’ tongue before he’s pushing back in, till his balls rest right up against Stiles’ chin and Stiles has his nose buried in Derek’s pubes. Stiles presses a hand to his own cock through his jeans and Derek snorts, kicking Stiles’ hand away, and then petting his head soothingly when Stiles whines around his dick. 

“I’m coming first,” Derek says, and Stiles actually rolls his eyes, and gets a cuff on the ear for it. Stiles keeps his hands off his dick, though, and instead focuses on trying to lick Derek’s balls whenever Derek bottoms out in his mouth. 

It doesn’t take long for Derek to come, but it feels like forever, feels like Stiles is in an endless arousal feedback loop, his dick twitching whenever Derek groans, or shoves into his mouth especially hard. Stiles is thrusting at the air, whining continuously by the time Derek comes, his fingers digging into Stiles’ skull, dick pressed as far in as he can go. 

Derek hauls him up, thumbs at a little bit of come as it runs down Stiles’ chin, and then pushes him towards the couch.

“Take off your pants,” Derek says and Stiles pauses just long enough to watch Derek strip his shirt off, because who would want to miss that, and then skims his jeans off, tossing them next to his abandoned hoodie. “Bend over the couch.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, but his dick has more control than his brain right now, and he clambers up on the couch, puts his arms over the back of it, and sticks his ass out, balls hanging heavy between his thighs, his dick bobbing. 

He hears Derek move (freaking finally) and then the soft whoosh of Derek’s jeans against the floor, and then there are two hands on his asscheeks, spreading him open. 

He’s not ashamed to admit he full-on yowls when Derek rubs his scruff against Stiles’ crack. It feels like a brand, burning and bright and he jerks forward, only keeps from banging his head into a wall because Derek’s gripping his ass, keeping him steady.

The next press of Derek’s scruffy cheek against his ass is abrasive enough that Stiles’ claws extend, and oops, he hopes Derek didn’t like this couch. He bets his eyes are yellow, too, and he can feel his ears lengthen, flicking back when Derek breathes on his hole.

“Gonna lap you out till you’re begging for it,” Derek says, and Stiles mewls again, then angles his ass higher, begging already. “Such a good bitch.”

Stiles shivers, arches his back. He’s been thinking about Derek, thinking about Derek saying those words, for a freaking month, and he was right; it’s smoking hot, just like he’d remembered. 

Derek’s tongue is hot and unforgiving and he licks Stiles out without finesse, sloppy and rough. There’s spit running down Stiles’ balls and he feels open and worked apart. At some point he smells Derek’s shift, just a hint, and he swears Derek’s tongue is licking _inside_ , longer than just human, and Stiles’ dick twitches. He’s got a wolf kink; so sue him.

“Touch me, Derek, please, please touch my dick,” Stiles pants, nearly sobbing into the couch cushions. He’s just tried to go for his own dick for the third time, only to get yet another growling snap at his asscheek and a swat at his hand. 

Derek growls again, and when he palms Stiles’ dick, it’s clumsy, claws brushing the head and Stiles jerks backwards, keening. Derek doesn’t let up on licking him out, just keeps fucking Stiles with his tongue while he jerks him off, rough and merciless, till Stiles is coming buckets onto Derek’s couch, ass clenching on Derek’s tongue while he mewls helplessly into his fist. 

Stiles barely registers Derek working him through the last of it, wringing shivers out through his dick, and that is seriously cruel. He can’t even _move_ but he jerks away from the sting of a washcloth on his ass, and oh. Oh man. He must have the worst beard burn of _life_ back there.

“N’gonna be able to sit f’r’a week,” he slurs out and Derek huffs out a breath and then forcibly removes Stiles from his couch. Stiles almost protests, but he’s pretty sure he totally decimated the couch with come, so. 

So bed is better; confirmed when he’s curled up in it, Derek up against his back, one hand curled possessively against Stiles’ chest. 

“Get some sleep,” Derek growls out, quietly commanding. 

This time falling asleep is easy, and Stiles sleeps like the dead.


End file.
